


ardently admire

by NotusLethe



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I swear, he loves this chick so damn much, he was heart eyes the entire time, i cant believe we didnt lose them, jaime just ridiculous with his face, spoilers The Long Night, spoilers s08e03, they both survived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe
Summary: "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.''They fought off the army of the dead. Now, the real impossible task begins: Jaime Lannister deals with feelings.





	ardently admire

_I’m learning to live_  
I’m trying to be better  
I’m learning to give  
But I don’t know if I’m a giver

\- giver by k. flay

 

The silence is deafening. The whole battle had been so loud, the screams of pain, the grunts of exertion, the screech of the dragons, and that terrible _terrible_ roar of the fire - everywhere, pervasive, oppressive. He's been through thousands of fights, skirmishes, battles, and all of that falls to the wayside, especially when your life hovers on the most precarious edge, but that fire - he can still feel the heat licking up the side of his face.

Now, though, there is nothing. The slight susurrus of a breeze picks up the ashes of wood and debris and bodies and he coughs, just once. With things settled, the reality of fighting furiously for one's life sets in. Exhaustion spears through his body and Jaime sags against the nearest wall.

"If you are able-bodied, find the injured and bring them to the Great Hall!" The voice that rings out is hoarse from screaming and soot. He's still reeling, and he can see a figure moving through the chaos, hoisting up men and setting them toward tasks. Jaime grins, clumsily tries to sheathe Widow's Wail once - twice - _three times_ before he can make the edge catch.

The wrong side of forty prevents him from recovering as fast as he used to, and using his left hand still gives him trouble. Not too bad, though. He is alive.

Moreover, Brienne is alive. Every time he glanced over to see a hoard of the dead threatening to overtake her, he'd plowed forward with wild strength from some unknown fount in his tired body. And she'd done the same for him. She'd felt like an extension of his sword arm more than the left ever had.

His thoughts must've summoned her. When he comes back to himself, her eyes are locked on him. They're still that arresting blue, not cold and unnatural like the dead they'd just faced, but warm, bright, the clearest sky of a perfect sunny day. Jaime heaves himself off the wall.

He says nothing, can't think of a single word that could encompass even the slightest sliver of what he wants to say to her

"Help me," she says, her mouth startling pink in her ash-covered face. When he looks down, Samwell fucking Tarly lies at his feet, large frame shuddering with labored breaths. He bends over, and with her helping him, Jaime cannot feel the fatigue anymore. They hoist Tarly to his feet and pass him along.

Their task continues. There are far more injured than he would've thought, but the bodies provided some protection and cover. He loses track of how many they pull out. She is relentless.

At one point, there is yelling and energy lances through him, his hand darting toward his sword. But it's not the enemy, rather -

"Big woman! We made it! I still got both my nuts for our children!" It takes three men to drag the huge red-headed wildling along. His legs are bloodied and unmoving, though it has not affected his cheer.

Brienne stares at the man - Tormit, maybe?-  before casting a forlorn expression back at Jaime. He can't help but laugh. She graces him with a rare grin, and then she laughs too, and the hysteria consumes them. Jaime doubles over with laughter and Brienne is caught with the same, and when he finds her gaze again, tears are streaming down her face and they are laughing or crying but they are _alive_.

He loves her. The knowledge bursts open in his chest like a wound, piercing and effulgent. He'd suspected that lurking feeling in his gut might be love, but when has he ever experienced real love? True, unconditional, pure love? Never. Something always muddies the waters.

He cannot tell her, obviously. He's washed out, washed up, little more than a bundle of sarcasm and sorrow bound with stubbornness. No, he won't put that burden on her. He will, however, hold it close to his heart. He'll show her however he can, and when he finally _(finally)_ dies, it won't hit as hard as it could.

"My lady," Brienne says, and the weight of the body he's holding nearly topples him when she lets go.

The lady of Winterfell stands before then, regal despite the blood on her face and tattered dress. She viscerally reminds him of Catelyn Tully every moment she grows older. He remembers the young Tully steadfast and strong, even when Aerys burned her betrothed alive. Sansa wouldn't waiver either.

Brienne kneels and Jaime is just a moment behind her. Frankly, he'd rather not bend to anyone, but Sansa Stark at least has a reputation for being reasonable, which is more than he can say for Daenerys or poor Jon Snow.

Sansa places a gloved hand on Brienne's shoulder and encourages her to rise. She wears a politician's smile: reserved, genuine. "I'm so glad you survived, Ser Brienne."

The joy that sweeps across Brienne's visage is transcendent. She doesn't smile, but everything about her glows, and Jaime sends a silent thanks to whomever told Sansa, though he has a good idea.

"My lady -"

"I am well, Ser. But it's time for you to retire. You've been out here for hours." She gestures and Jaime realizes just how much they've cleared away, separating the living from the dead. "There's food in the kitchens. Your quarters should still be available. Please see to yourself, Ser."

Brienne hesitates, her gaze landing on the pile of groaning bodies ahead of them. Sansa blocks her view.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Ser Brienne?"

The appeal to her duty does what it's intended, and Brienne inclines her head before sluggishly making her way toward the right. Jaime watches her go.

"You too," Sansa says, raising an eyebrow.

Jaime gives her a deep bow that's only slightly mocking. He would do well not to make an enemy of the Stark girl. Any _more_ of an enemy. He doubts he's on her good side.

"Ser Jaime?"

He turns. He hasn't heard his title in that tone of voice since… since Arthur Dayne knighted him and he still felt like he was worth the honor. That gleaming picture of knighthood still shone brightly then, and if he'd heard more people address him that way, he might've been able to believe in honor and duty and upholding at least some of those vows he promised. He didn't know the Stark girl could speak that way, quietly but sincerely, most of all infused with faith. If this was how Sansa made her people feel all the time, the dragon queen had better watch out. He'd known men to die for much less.

"Yes, my lady?"

Sansa frowns, her pretty face twisting with complicated emotion. She takes a hesitant step forward, then another. "Thank you. For staying with her, keeping her safe."

Jaime scoffs. "You don't know her very well if you think _I_ was keeping _her_ safe."

And little Sansa Stark stuns him when she giggles, hiding behind her hands. "It's true, then. I didn't believe Tyrion when he told me, but it's true."

He is too tired and too old, and yet he still runs hot with a blush from his cheeks to chest. He can imagine what his interfering little shit brother told Sansa.

She dons her lady mantle again, shoulders back, regal, but he can see the sweet girl lingering in her mirthful eyes and rosy skin. "I shouldn't have to tell you, Ser Jaime, the power at my disposal should you act less than honorably."

He manages to refrain from gaping like a fool, though his surprise is pervasive. "I remember it well, my lady."

He bows again and takes his leave, stifled giggles following him the whole way.

He's been to the kitchens before, when Tyrion led him through a desperate search for wine. They would not be difficult to find anyhow, with the long stream of barely upright people waiting patiently in line. Jaime waits as well, scanning the crowd for Brienne. She's so damned tall, it should've been easy, and still he cannot see her.

He collects his food - porridge that has certainly been thickened with bark, but smells of meat and probably made with a bone broth - then renews his search in earnest. He finds her in one of the grand waiting rooms where tables have been shoddily assembled and arranged. Naturally, Brienne does not sit, but leans against a far wall while she eats. He takes his place beside her, silent. Her eyes slide his way, but only for a moment.

Halfway through, a small child with dark hair and wide dark eyes offers both of them a palm-sized piece of dried venison. They refuse simultaneously, and in the ensuing confusion, the child rolls her eyes and drops each piece into their respective bowls.

Gods save him from Northerners!

Someone else comes by to take their bowls, and then it is just them with no distractions. Brienne inhales deeply, then winces and presses her hand against her side.

"You're injured!" Jaime accuses.

"No, I-"

Jaime pulls at her hand and a faint smear of blood stains her dirty fingers. Brienne scowls, yanks back her hand.

"It's nothing. There are far more who are injured much worse. I'll be fine."

She could be missing a leg and refuse to take anything for herself. Jaime moves toward her again, but Brienne darts out of his grasp.

"I think I need to sleep. You should sleep as well, Jaime. Our business here is finished, but we still have much to do." She escapes before he formulates a response.

Well. He's not letting her get away with that.

Jaime heads to the Great Hall and temporary hospital, where he overhears what transpired elsewhere in Winterfell during the battle. He uses his smile and looks to charm a few bandages and some salve from one of the women patching up the soldiers. It's beginning to work less and less and the grime probably doesn't lend itself well either. Maybe she just felt sorry for him. He has no more ego to not take pity, if it gives him what he needs.

He tries to remember where Brienne had her room. Winterfell is complex enough, made moreso by broken down walls, rotting corpses, and tired men collapsing however far their bodies made it. Jaime takes a wrong turn and ends up in what looks to be a library. He sighs.

A noise, ever so soft, rustles behind him. He sets his hand loosely around his dagger. Their suppositions that felling the Night King would destroy all the animated dead had only ever been a theory, and Jaime was used to things not working out for him. He keeps his pace casual.

His caution is needless. Not a few seconds later, Arya Stark drops down from the bookcase on silent feet. The smallest frown in the corner of her mouth lets him know she's disappointed she wasn't able to startle him.

Jaime inclines his head. "Lady Stark."

Arya's recoil of disgust is almost adorable, but Jaime maintains his placid countenance. She shrugs. "I'm not Lady Stark - that's my sister."

Yes, and Sansa wears it better than Arya ever could. Not that either sister didn't have their talents. Arya pulls a blade from her side and begins to flip it idly. It's a dagger, and he knows it must be _the_ dagger: the one she used to kill the Night King.

"Oh? And then, what should I call you?"

A fierce grin not unlike a wolf crosses her mouth. "Maybe you could call me Kingslayer."

He exhales a laugh, but it shakes on the way out. "Probably shouldn't. Wouldn't want to confuse everyone. If _you're_ Kingslayer and _I'm_ Kingslayer, then our place-settings will get mixed up at the big dinner later."

Arya scans him with her astute eye. "You're not how I remember you."

"No?" He waves around his stump a bit, the golden hand lost ages ago, making some fucking peasant rich. "More to me, back then."

"Yeah, me too," she says, though he isn't sure what she means, and very sure he doesn't want to know. She steps toward him and Jaime resolutely does not retreat. He won't back away from a child. Not even this one. She tilts her head. "What are you doing here?"

"I took a wrong turn, somewhere along the way. You wouldn't happen to be able to direct me back?"

Arya sheathes her dagger, though her face remains carefully blank. "Maybe. Depends on where you want to go."

"To my quarters. I've been order to take a nap, by your sister." Here, Arya snorts. "Yes, and I remember it being somewhere on the west side. Near, ah, Brienne of Tarth, I believe."

Arya snorts louder, and starts walking. "Come on. I can't believe I owe Sansa a gold dragon."

She doesn't elaborate as they weave through the myriad hallways of Winterfell. He recognizes her doubling-back, maybe in an effort to confuse him, but he's had to keep track of where he was his whole life. Jaime doesn't comment.

They're walking through what must be one of a million identical passages when Arya changes her gait, loping, rather than the determined march of earlier. It's a predator's walk, and Jaime can't help but to compare her to a wolf again. How did two such disparate girls manage to embody the same creature?

"You're not on my list," Arya says, her blunt dirty fingers trailing along the stonework.

"Your list?"

"The list of people I'm going to kill." Jaime doesn't react, but its a near thing. He nods, as though it is reasonable, and maybe it is. Maybe the little girl who lost everything so young should have a list of those responsible. He'd be more surprised he's not on it if he could think of a time he wasn't either acting on someone else's orders or failing spectacularly.

"Is it very long still?"

Arya turns so she's walking backward, eyes like chips of dragonglass, so surefooted. "No. There's only three left, now. Ser Ilyn Payne, the Mountain. Cersei."

Jaime squeezes his eyes shut. Of course. She's made so many enemies, why not one small child that eventually turns assassin with enough skill to obliterate the undead king of night. He lets out his breath in a slow even stream. "For your father."

"And Sansa. And Lady. And so many other reasons." Arya watches him intently. Her gaze is cold and assessing and Jaime has been seriously remiss in his thinking her a child. People in their situations don't stay children very long.

"Of course," he whispers.

The curiosity on her face is all farce, and it is chilling. "Will you try to stop me?"

Jaime laughs. "I don't think I could. But no, I wouldn't. A month ago… no. I won't try to stop you, Kingslayer."

When Arya grins, it is the uncanny mix of childish glee and deadly confidence, and Jaime gives her a nod. She stops at a corner and points. "Down there. The path to - _your_ quarters, Ser."

"Thank you," he says, stepping gingerly around her. A strong small hand lands on his arm.

"You're not as bad as I thought you'd be."

"It's because I have no real qualities. I'm like Cersei, only dumber and more obedient. And I'm like Tyrion, only dumber and taller. Generally, you can count on my stupidity in all things."

Her quick eyes flick over him again in appraisal, and he has no doubt she'd cataloged everything she needs to know to kill him. At least someone is thorough. "You could never have made it this long if you were that stupid. You're something else."

"Am I?" A door slams down the hall and Jaime glances, but sees nothing. "What would that be?"

When he turns back, Arya is gone. Only the lingering metallic scent of old blood marks her presence. He wonders briefly what Ned Stark would think of his children: calculating Sansa, distant Bran, noble Jon, fierce Arya. Ned didn't seem the sort of man to have the stomach for it. Catelyn - she would've appreciated her girls.

Exhaustion slows his steps. It's been three days since he last slept, and Jaime is losing the will to continue. Perhaps he could sleep in the hallway and no one would mind.

"Oh look, I've stumbled upon a hero of Winterfell. Wouldn't do if I just left him out here." The voice makes a lazy grin appear on Jaime's face. He opens his eyes to see Tyrion, hands on hips, eyebrows raised.

Jaime lurches forward, nearly tackles his brother in a hug. Tyrion grunts, but accepts the embrace, with Jaime on his knees they are a near height. Beneath the stench of fear-sweat, dust, and rot, he smells of musty books and sweet wine, like he always does. Jaime presses his forehead hard against his brother's shoulder.

"There, there. We both made it. We're safe as houses, for the time being. Who knows what terrors we'll face tomorrow."

Jaime sits back on his heels, eyes roving over his brother's form again and again. The attention must unnerve Tyrion, who waves his hand dismissively.

"Come on then, you look terrible, like you've just spent all night fighting endless streams of the unfathomable terror of the undead."

Jaime allows himself to be coaxed to his feet, and he gamely follows Tyrion into what must be his room. "Do I? I'll arrange to be out of the more direct fighting, next time."

"Hells, don't say next time. Knowing our luck, whatever god overhears that might just make it true."

Despite his status as the Queen's Hand, Tyrion's quarters are modest, and have been commandeered. Animal pelts cover the hard stone floor, and three cots have unceremoniously shoved in at whatever angle they fit. One of beds is occupied. A wave of relief floods his gut when he recognizes Pod's dirty armor. The boy snores loud enough to be heard over the blankets on his head.

Tyrion seats Jaime near the fire, the warmth doing nothing to combat his weariness. Jaime doesn't realize he closes his eyes until there's the sensation of a wet cloth dragging over his face. He blearily opens his eyes to Tyrion's mouth screwed up in concentration.

"You don't have to-"

"Hush. Now, put that down."

Jaime looks at his arms and realizes he still carries the supplies he'd snatched for Brienne. He's been so intent on finding her he'd forgotten why he had done so.

"Is that bandages? Are you injured?" Worry shoots through Tyrion's voice and Jaime shakes his head.

"No. It's… It's for Brienne. She refused to get seen for her own wounds, of course." The water is cool against his skin, but the fire keeps him from shivering.

"Ah. That's where you were heading. To Brienne."

Jaime cracks open one eye to see the carefully blank expression on his brother's face.

"No need for any of that, Tyrion. I've already been threatened by the scary and scarier Starks."

Tyrion chuckles. "Which is which, do you think?"

"Convention would say the younger one. She has killed many people, including an impossible king of the dead."

"Yes, brother, but then you would just be dead. The other would destroy you in ways that would still leave you alive to suffer."

Jaime hums, closes his eyes. "As usual, I concede to your greater wisdom."

Tyrion finishes and either the quiet or the intimacy must get to him. He clears his throat. "We'll leave in a few days, you know. For King's Landing."

"I know." He'd rather not have this conversation.

"You don't-" Tyrion sighs as though he's already lost the argument. "It might be better if you didn't go."

The bitterness of his smile weighs down the edges. "We've been together our whole lives. I can't let her end be without me. Even if she doesn't return the sentiment."

"She will try to kill all of us. Including you, if you're there."

"Of course she will!" Jaime grabs ahold of Tyrion's arm and gives it a good shake. "Who will protect you if I'm not there, as I've always been? I spent my life standing between the two of you. No need to stop the tradition now."

"And when she's gone, Jaime," Tyrion says with earnest eyes. "What will you do?"

"Assuming I'm not dead - although that does look the most likely outcome - I suppose I'll do the only thing I'm good at. Serve in the Kingsguard protecting whichever of them ends up on that throne." Jaime leans on his one hand to stop it from trembling. With his usual astuteness for observation, Tyrion cannot fail to notice.

"You'd serve the Dragon Queen."

If Daenerys ends up on the throne, chances are that Jaime will be one of the new scorch marks decorating her floor. Should the queen feel particularly whimsical that day, maybe he and Cersei will be burned side-by-side. But Jaime shrugs with nonchalance to dismiss that fear.

"I doubt Daenerys Targaryen would agree to have me on her Kingsguard - that's a good point. Maybe I will sell my services. There'll still be mercenary groups." Jaime smirks. "And you? Will you take your place as Lord of Casterly Rock? My claim, of course, is still forfeit."

Tyrion chokes on his swig of wine. "Gods no. I'd burn it down before I'd live there again."

"Ah, so the Rock is to be as empty as its mines. A fitting end for the Lannisters who used to have everything."

Wine sloshes on his sleeve when Tyrion slaps him with the bag he's drinking from. His face holds such a mixture of sadness and wryness that Jaime could not describe but feels echoing through him keenly.

"Stop being so melancholy. We just defeated the Night King. We won a _war._ "

"Share some of that wine, and maybe."

A chuckle, and Tyrion gulps down more wine while squirming away from Jaime's outstretched hand. He cannot hide his smile nor his mischievousness. Jaime knows this face; it will not end well for him.

"No, I think not, brother. You don't want _performance_ issues."

Jaime groans and scrubs at his face. "You're mocking me. I'm a fool, and you're mocking me for it."

"No!" Tyrion says, while laughing, which undermines his denial somewhat. He pats Jaime's thigh, then chest, then cheek with increasing force. He might be a little more in his cups than Jaime originally thought. "Go, please, and be happy - for one of us - for _once_. If anyone's earned a bit of happiness, it's us."

Jaime presses his cold hand against Tyrion's on his cheek. "Us Lannisters, you mean. We deserve happiness, of course. As we've done no wrong and had it all done upon us."

"Don't say it like that, now I feel stupid. Maybe we don't deserve it, then. But you damn well can seize it, Jaime. Go and seize your, frankly, enormous woman, and you let her seize you."

"Good night, Tyrion," Jaime says, picking up his excuse and smiling despite himself. "You drink too much more and you'll be useless tomorrow."

The force with which Tyrion flings himself across his bed punctuates his words. "I can be useless tomorrow! We won, Jaime! We fucking won."

Jaime softly closes the door to his brother's chambers. He is back in the hall, empty save for the lonely wind drifting through. It is markedly colder without a fire, even with Winterfell's clever plumbing using the hot springs, but he takes his time moving the rest of the way.

He has not thought this through. He tries not to do much thinking, usually, as it often conflicts with instinct, and he relies on instinct extensively. It may have lead to some issues, but he's still alive. Barely. Sort of. He keeps fighting, keeps surviving, and now he wonders what for. What is the point of it all. He doesn't want Casterly Rock, he loathes the idea of serving beneath another Dragon, so what shall he do. He knows a few things, took in all the proper schooling as befit a noble's son, and Tywin's rigorous training of strategy and war on top of that. He could be an advisor, though he cannot think of a single person who would welcome the Kingslayer in their retinue.

War is simple. No. War is complex and difficult and messy and terrible and sublime. And it is simple. Win, at whatever cost. Jaime is good at war. Everything else…

He has nothing to offer her. He is days away from a very probable death, he has no prospects, the Lannister money is dwindling fast, he has no land, and no talents other than inflicting widespread death, a talent which may not be as necessary once they end all of this.

He _is_ nothing and he _has_ nothing.

Jaime inhales deeply of the bracingly cold air. He can be her friend. He has managed to be friends with people before, and he can do it again. He loves her, and he can support her. He'll watch out for her as long as she lets him. Which will be not long at all. Jaime breathes a soft laugh; he is a tired old man, and it would be nice to have friends.

He knocks. Silence, then shuffling and a loud thump, footsteps approaching the door. It opens.

She's cleaned up, better than he has, her face clean and pink from washing, her hair no longer slicked back with sweat. Her eyes widen and he still cannot pinpoint their color, only that it is entrancing, and while she stares, blinking at him, all of his doubts both vanish and coalesce. He cannot sustain the knife's edge of desire and fear.

"Jaime," she says, softly, stupidly.

He grins. He tips over.

"It's very cold out here, you know. I heard it happens in the North." She woodenly steps out of the way, as though her body moved without permission. He slips inside before she can regain her good sense.

The room is only a third the size of Tyrion's, though decorated in much the same way. The dire wolf crest sits above the fireplace in a curiously ornate frame of stained wood, and there has been some effort to hide the bare stone walls with swaths of stiff gray linen. If he had to guess, Jaime would think the room for a child, something to ease the noise and brutality of the outside world. A single window high up in the northern corner reveals the darkness of night and the fall of snow.

Brienne walks with the same rigidity toward the fire, where she fetches something in a pot from the flames. He knows she would never hoard food, so it must be water for washing.

Jaime eases the door shut behind him. Improper, but when has he ever given a shit about that. Given her actions this evening, he doubts anyone would begrudge her a night with a man. Even if it is the Kingslayer. There are two chairs next to the fire, and Jaime helps himself to one.

He sits, but her still wide eyes distract him, and he catches the edge of the chair and upends it, nearly falls to the floor. Brienne leaps forward, her hands out to help. Jaime catches himself and squeezes his eyes shut. Excellent showing.

Pretending it was intentional, though they both know it to be false, Jaime carefully lays out his bounty. He steals a glance at Brienne and her mouth thins.

"Someone else-"

"Did you get that wound seen to?" he interrupts, keeping his face innocent when he regards her. She scowls.

"It's nothing."

She's wearing woolen trousers and a loose linen shirt in dull beige, which hides her form but not the wet patch on her side, dotted with dark spots he can guess to be blood.

"It looks like nothing, there, bleeding through your clothes."

"I'm fine," she insists, and it's going to be a very long night at this rate.

"Yes, I _know_ because you've said it, and yet, there you are, _bleeding_ , so I'll have to insist. I'm not the best medic, but I've done my share and my hands are clean. Sit down."

She crosses her arms, straightens her back so she can loom over him a little. A frisson of something snakes down his spine and Jaime lets out a shaky breath.

"No."

"Sit _down,_ Brienne." She tilts her chin up in defiance. Jaime moves into her space, into the warmth she radiates more than the fire, the scent of her skin like sunlight and salt water, as if she carried the seas surrounding her island inside her. He cannot bear to touch her, to cross the boundary of the space between them to sully her righteous air. Jaime looks up, and they are so very close, a handbreadth separating their faces. "Please."

Brienne sits. A fine tremor shakes her shoulders, but otherwise she is still. Jaime reaches out his hand to touch her side, the fabric of her shirt rough, catching on his callouses. He pauses.

"Where, ah, where is…"

Even in the low light of the fire, he can see her skin flush from ears to nape to back. Her strong fingers curve up behind her as she brushes an awkward spot beneath her shoulder blade. "Just here."

He'll have to lift her shirt, far higher than he thought. He swallows. "Could I… if I may…"

"Yes."

Jaime places some of the bandages in the hot water, keeping the rest dry for whatever sort of wound he may find. He flexes his hand several times, trying to shake the tingling feeling from it. He does not succeed.

She is rarely without armor, especially here in the North, and it shows. Her skin is milk-pale, spinkled delicately with freckles like flecks of ink. It takes only a few scant inches of flesh before he encounters bruising in various shades, the mostly-healed green and the deep purple of fresh blood. He traces a finger along one of the darker patches. She shivers; he jerks his hand away.

He must lift the shirt higher, and he does. She doesn't protest or clamp her arms down. When he finally finds it, its worse and better than he thought. The blood must be from earlier or when she breaks the scabbing, as the wound is only a few spots of abraded skin. But the mark comes from teeth, someone's bite tearing into her. He resists the urge to place his lips upon her, to take away the imprint of another.

Jaime breathes in, the saltwater flesh, the sting of the salve, the wretched cold, the woody fire, and breathes out. He picks up the bandages out of the hot water - nearly burns himself - and begins to wipe away the dirt and blood from her wound.

She exhales sharply.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she whispers, and he sees her fingers clench on her thighs.

By the time he's finished, the wound bleeds again, but he presses piece after piece of cotton against it until it ceases. He dips his fingers back into the hot water, then smears salve over the clean skin. When he lastly places a dry bandage over the mark, he leaves his hand resting against her, rising and falling with her deep measured breaths.

"Thank you," she says. There's no reason for him to stay so close, his hands on her, the fire and their proximity driving away the unrelenting chill. His hand moves of its own volition, tucking a strand of her damp hair behind the translucent shell of her ear that still burns with blush. "Jaime-"

He sits across from her, throws a rakish smile on his face. "What will you do, now that the Battle for Winterfell is won?"

If she's thrown by his rapid change in subject, only a slight furrow between her brows betrays her. "We are to head South. You know we must deal with Cersei."

"I do. I'd hoped she would quietly ride off into the night."

The confusion spreads to her downturned mouth. "You didn't."

"No. She'll die before she gives up the throne. I imagine she will. Die, that is. And give up the throne by doing so. She-" he cuts himself off before he can fall into whatever mournful diatribe is lurking behind all that sentiment.

Her hand catches his, enfolds it with quiet strength. Her expression is not one of pity, but sorrow, and how had he managed to make her grieve his loss. "Whatever she has become, you can mourn your sister."

Its too much, too understanding, and Jaime swells with the urge to mock her for it, to throw it in her kind, understanding face. Instead, he scrambles to his feet, unable to tear his hand away.

"I didn't come to speak about my sister."

Brienne also rises, now her brows furrowed in something akin to anger. Good. Anger is far more familiar than compassion. "Then what did you come here for, Jaime?"

"I-" He sways forward, but cannot follow-through with that, and so he retreats, her fingertips catching his before they part. "I came only to see to your wound, since you are too stubborn to take care of yourself."

"You've done so, but you stayed."

He cannot look at her. "An oversight I thank you for bringing to my attention."

He's nearly to the door when he stops, as if hitting some hidden barrier. No matter what his feelings have done to muddle this attempt at friendship, he can't leave on a bad note.  He can't leave with her thinking him indifferent to her, or worse, disliking. He steels himself and faces her.

She sits on the edge of her bed, one hand over her mouth, the other lost and forlorn on a blanket. He's rarely seen her look younger, even when they met almost a decade ago. Jaime Lannister has been many things over the years, and he will not let himself be the person that abandons Brienne of Tarth, knight. He tentatively sits beside her, capturing her hand and twining their fingers. He's never held hands with someone as strong as he, and it's solid, reassuring, grounding.

"We made it through the end of the world," he says softly, eyes watching as his thumb traces over her ragged knuckles. "You were the only thing I could think of then, and the only thing I can think of now."

"I'm glad you came. You- I-" She bites her lip.

"I love you," he says, exploding out of him in a rush of hot air. The release feels like the sweet sting of being stabbed, a breath after drowning, being slapped so soundly it clears your head. Her fingers tighten on his. "If it meant anything at all, I would marry you, if you'd like. I'd stay by your side. I wish only to be - near you."

His breath shudders. _Idiot._ He hadn't meant to make such an overture and now, surely, she is beyond discomfort.

The kiss is awkward, and so hard he feels the press of her teeth against his lips. He jerks back.

"Brienne-"

"I don't mean- you _confessed_ and how -" She is so furiously red she must be hot to the touch and the back of his hand against her cheek confirms it. She grabs that hand, her grip tight enough to make his fingers white. "If you don't mean it-"

"I mean it," he says. He surges forward and kisses her again. He's better at it, keeps them far enough apart that it is only soft lips touching, a gentle press, again, more demanding. He touches her bottom lip with his tongue and when she parts her mouth he groans. Her fingers grip his hair hard enough to hurt, and it sends heat spiraling into his groin.

Her fingers work at the catches of his armor, quickly divesting him of it with her familiarity. It clangs against the stone floor, barely muffled by the furs, and they catch each other's gaze.

Only the smallest ring of blue remains in her eyes, her mouth deep scarlet and he doesn't remember but his beard has scratched up her throat where he must've kissed her neck. Her chest heaves and he can barely concentrate.

"Brienne, I don't-"

She hops on the bed and pulls him to her, the long length of her legs encasing his hips. Jaime's head swims.

"Don't do me the disfavor of thinking I don't know what I'm doing."

"Never, ser." He kisses her, dragging his mouth along her jaw, over the tender skin of her neck so he can remember this time. Her hands are in his hair, then his back, shoulder, arm, and one slides low enough down his hip that he grins. He touches her back. She hisses.

"Sorry, I-"

"It's alright-" then she laughs, a little hysterical. Jaime lays his brow against her collarbone, his breath shaky, every exhale fluttering the edge of her shirt.

"I'm so tired," he confesses. She sighs as she rakes her hands through his hair.

"I can barely keep my eyes open, but I-" Brienne pulls back, gaze averted, still blushing, even with her arms and legs wrapped around him, preventing an unwanted escape.

He rubs his nose along her cheekbone. "Tomorrow."

She nods, wriggles along the bed so she can turn down the blankets. He should probably gather up his armor, don it again, but the idea of doing such exhausts him.

"Stay with me," she says, feigned courage making her chin stubborn. He smiles.

"They'll ridicule you if they find out. Your reputation-"

"Fuck my reputation," Brienne says. A wave of love crashes through him so strongly his knees buckle. "I held off an army of the dead, I can have whomever I like in bed with me."

Well, there is no arguing with that. He crawls in beside her. The warmth of their bodies makes the shared space a furnace, and for the first time since he crossed the Neck, Jaime doesn't feel cold.

He keeps away until she grabs the stump of his arm and pulls it around her waist. How could he deny her such a simple request? He presses his mouth against the knob of her spine, breathes in deep the salt scent and sunshine.

It is a long time before her voice softly emerges into the silence of the room. "I love you."

Jaime finally, _finally_ , rests.

**Author's Note:**

> Summary quote from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, as is the reference for the title.


End file.
